Prodigal
by Poseidon's Daughter
Summary: Posse. Commander. Wingheart. Gunslinger. The road home is a lot longer than it looks.


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**Prodigal: Chapter One: Kings for Hire.**

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Seifer always knew that they'd come for him.

Someone. Sometime. Somewhere.

Seifer knew.

One of the few things he knew. With disturbing blank spots, with mental wounds rubbed raw and bleeding inside of his skull, with the distinct sense that he has _lost_ something- this is one of the few things Seifer knew for certain.

Crime and punishment.

It's how these things worked, you see. He's read the stories, he knows the laws, and he knows that, always, the character who invades countries, tortures old comrades, and attempts to sacrifice old girlfriends… that character _never_ gets off hands clean. Never escapes. Never goes home again.

There is no reprieve for the wicked.

No reprieve for stupid teenagers, either.

On the bright side, never one to do things by halves, at least Seifer can honestly stand up and say that he is both. As the Fallen Knight, as the Odin Killer, Seifer is both.

…And he's yet to be convinced that it is an entirely bad thing to be.

All things considered.

* * *

Crimson Eye. Bone Flesh. Pandemona.

Thunder Blood. Lightning Heart. Storm Thought.

They had met up with him shortly after the end of all things. After leaving him. They had met up with him and together the three returned to the only place they could think of – Balamb. Balamb where, in their small abandoned beach shack, they have been living off of sea and fish and beasts.

Seifer finally says it.

Four days after Sorceress Fall, two days after Garden flew overhead. Gruff and stubborn and frustrated, Seifer finally says it:

"I suppose I ought to be pretty angry with you two."

His back against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him, Seifer soaks in the sunlight – an act which is nowhere near as calming as he had hoped it would prove to be.

The woman, silver haired and pale, stands in the doorway, saying nothing. Even covered head to toe she is unwilling to step out of shadows in the midst of these bright afternoons.

Gloves shoved into a coat pocket, Seifer stares at the naked hands in his lap, "…I'm not."

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In a library in Balamb, between two shelves of books, Squall Leonhart- Commander of Garden, war hero, and knight – is hiding.

Well, no. That's not entirely true. Brunette bangs fall across grey-blue eyes as he glares unseeingly at the open text in his hands. Squall is not hiding per se. Merely attempting to escape from prying eyes.

And, trust him, the eyes are everywhere. Even here. Even now. Difference being that those who cared enough to spend a beautiful sunny afternoon in the_ library_ were not the type who would approach him were it not absolutely necessary that they do so. Too shy, too studious, too hesitant…Squall prefers it. Even now, Squall prefers it.

He prefers it. He does not rely on it. For it's true, as a whole, Squall has changed drastically these last few months.

However, between his contract with a certain teenage liberal and working hard to _save the world_, the young man has not had much time to stop and think about the changes.

Absently, he turns a page.

Squall is no longer uncomfortable with his new found rank of power. Truth be told – which it will not should he have his way- he rather enjoys it. Not the deskwork so much. Yet the knowledge that he can order and oversee any measure he deems to further protect, to further improve the defense of Garden….that alone is worth its weight in bureaucratic nonsense.

Action and consequences. It's how these things worked. And he does not mind his rank.

….

…Yet if one more person congratulates him – if one more person tearfully, adoringly, cheerfully, thanks him, Squall….Squall is not entirely sure what he will do. Scream, maybe. Shout. Pitch a fit. Maim someone. Toss himself down the elevator shaft. Drown himself in the ocean. Convince Irvine to wrangle up a firing squad.

Hide in the library.

With a small sigh that is equal parts exasperation and self-reproach, he closes the book (_Salamander Flame__, "Join this monk turned bounty hunter on his thrilling quest for revenge!") _and places it back on the shelf.

He should leave. He should stop being juvenile and leave. They only thanked him because they were truly grateful. It doesn't have to be a production. Just smile, nod, and keep walking. They don't expect anything more. Not really. It's still more than they would have received even two months earlier. They know that. They understand their Commander is still a bit wary of social situations. They understand that and do not expect more than that generous nod and hesitant smile. For it is more than they ever would have gotten had Rin-

He snatches another book off the shelf and flips to a random page.

That _is_ a problem, isn't it? Rinoa-she…she is a problem. The kind of problem he has no idea how to deal with. A problem he has never had to deal with before. A problem he never has had before.

A problem he never wanted before.

A problem he still doesn't want. Which is a problem within a problem due to the neon-blinding fact that, for not wanting the problem, he wants _her_. Black hair, rosy lips, brown eyes, and smiling, smiling, smiling – he wants her.

Distinctly and uncomfortably aware that he has gone suspiciously pink about the ears, the second book (_To Zanarkand__, "The classic love story of a lady summoner, her guardian, and perceived reality."_) shortly joins the first on the shelf whilst a third novel is blindly grabbed.

This is ridiculous. _He_ is being ridiculous. The woman in question is not even in Garden – in Balamb – anymore. No, her father had come to collect her only yesterday. After a behind closed doors talk, in a rare show of tolerance, Rinoa followed without much fuss. Which was just as well. She was Sorceress now. She could hardly stay in Garden. Her very existence is a part of the SeeD mission statement.

…but that doesn't mean Squall has to be happy about it. Or mature about it. And that doesn't change the fact that, when she left _without protest_, it hurt-

Crossing the room in quick, even steps, he makes his way towards the check-out counter where the librarian currently manning the station smiles brightly. Inwardly groaning, Squall gives her a small nod, handing over the book without even a glance at the title (_The Brothers Fon Ronsenburg__, "A sprawling epic of deceit, adventure, and redemption, set against the harsh backdrop of world war.")_

He needs to get out of here. He needs to stop hiding. He needs air. He needs to do something. He needs to train. He needs to kill something. He needs to talk to someone. He needs, he needs, he needs…

Book tucked under his arm, Squall makes for the exit, having every intention of hide- working in the Headmaster's office and better acquainting himself with that lovely stack of papers Xu recently explained needed signing off and he just…

Action and consequences.

When Rinoa left without protest - insignificant or not, juvenile or not - it hurt him as surely as any betrayal.

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_Steady. Aim. Fire._

_BANG!_

_Repeat. _

_Steady. Aim. Fire._

_BANG!_

_Repeat._

_Steady. Aim. Fire._

_BANG!_

This is his version of therapy. Or pretty close. The training center and grats suffice… but it'd be nicer if Balamb had a proper firing range like Galbadia did.

_Repeat._

Of course, Balamb rarely trains gunslingers.

_Steady. Aim. Fire._

But then, neither does Galbadia. Not anymore. He is one of a dwindling few.

_BANG!_

Cause and effect.

Serendipitous cosmic forces aside, _this _is the only realreason Irvine had been allowed to join (reunite) with Squall and Company. _This_ is the only reason. The fact that he is a good shot.

_Repeat_.

He is a damn good shot.

_Steady. Aim. Fire._

He knows how to handle pressure. He knows how to perform. He knows how to kill.

_BANG!_

Irvine had thought, somewhere in the back of his panicked mind, that if he feigned nerves- alright, not completely feigned- Squall would brush the cowboy off, let him off the hook.

Irvine had told Headmaster Martin that he would shoot the sorceress…had he known this was also agreeing to shoot his Matron, Irvine's response would have been very different.

_Repeat_.

Squall hadn't let him off the hook. No. Squall who – just like all of the others- had acted like Irvine was a stranger this entire time talked him into shooting the sorceress. Shooting Matron.

Shooting **Mother**.

_Steady. Aim. Fire._

And Irvine had LET himself be talked into it. After all, she had been Squall's Matron too. Maybe she really was evil. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe she was someone else who only looked like their Edea.

_BANG!_

Except he knew it was her. He always had.

_Pause. Reload._

He knew it was her and…and- oh! Why was he torturing himself about this _now_? This sorceress business was over with. Finished. Done.

_Steady. Aim. Fire._

…He has the answer to that.

_BANG!_

It is because Irvine knew.

_Repeat._

Irvine had always known it was Matron and he still…

_Steady. Aim. Fire._

He had still-

_BANG!_

This is Irvine's version of therapy. And this-

_Repeat._

_Pause._

"…"

_Pause._

....And this is dumb.

* * *

Raijin lies flat on his back, snoring enough to wake the dead.

Fortunately the surf swallows all but the worst of the racket.

Not that it makes much difference. The whole sleeping thing has not been working out all that well for Seifer. Half the time, dreams just _won't_ come. And for the other half when the dreams do come, well…

That's even worse.

In less than a week, night has become a time of dread for Seifer. And, in the pale glow of the early a.m. hours, this evening has been no exception.

He reclines on his trench coat, painstakingly darned and mended with a thread and needle, where it is spread out like a blanket on the floor beneath him. Even beside the sea, the nights are still warm. For how much longer, he can't say. For now, though. For now they are warm.

Turning his head, he takes in the silver woman… for he has his doubts that she, like himself, is sleeping. In the corner farthest from the door (and entirely too close, in his opinion), Fujin lies curled on her side, her mop of prematurely grey hair obstructing the view of surprisingly delicate facial features. If Seifer wanted he could reach out and touch her.

He doesn't. He-

"Units, hold fire!"

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In the dead of night, sleeping on the floor, the three teens are jolted roughly awake to the sounds of soldiers just outside their walls.

Of course, crime and punishment, deep down, Seifer had known this was going to happen.

All things considered.

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**Prodigal: Chapter One: Kings for Hire: End.**

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End file.
